


One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer

by Gamermom



Series: To Woo(e) a Hunter [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Bartenders, Crobby - Freeform, Drinking, Gen, Hipsters, cocktails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 02:19:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14250948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gamermom/pseuds/Gamermom
Summary: Two boys, and old drunk and a fallen angel walk into a bar and are served drinks that match them perfectly. Crowley makes progress with is favorite hunter, although Bobby might have a new crush.





	One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer

**Author's Note:**

> I really just wanted to write about what cocktail best fit TFW. Drink descriptions credited to David Wondrich of Esquire.  
> Written for SPN Rare Ships Creation Challenge  
> Prompt: Mind Eraser – vodka, Kahlua, tonic water

“One bourbon, one scotch, one beer.”

Dean leans across the bar and smiles cockily up at the bartender. The bartender snorts at him.

“No,” she responds, while grabbing a bottle of mix and pouring it into the shaker.

“Come on,” Dean flirts. “I know it is bad pun, but that really is our drink order.”

“Thorogood or Hooker?” she responds, grabbing another bottle without breaking Dean’s teasing eye contact. She pours a shot of Two Star into the mixer while the green eyed man answers.

“Oh Hooker of course, I know my betters ma’am,” he smiles smugly back. In all honestly Dean was preoccupied and not interested in picking up a one night stand, but he would have to be at least three days dead not to flirt. It was simply his nature. The woman winks at him, drops a cherry in his drink and slides it over.

“Well friend you have good choice in music, even if you don’t know what to order. This is the drink you want for tonight,” her voice purrs at him, flirting right back. Dean lifts the glass to his lips and sips. A toe curling grin spreads across of his face.

“Yeah, this is what I wanted.” He replies.

The bartender just smiles and turns to Cas. She looks the angel in a trench coat up and down. He responds by cocking his head and looking at her sideways. They both smile as she starts mixing a drink. Again she works without breaking eye contact. First ice in a tall glass that she fills with clear soda from the hose, then she tops it with a splash of grenadine and a cherry on top. She smiles big and slides it over. Cas takes the drink and sips.

“Dean the bubbles tickle my nose!” the angel exclaiming. He turns to the bartender. “I like this very much. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” She responds. Then her eyes fall on Sam. Having seen how she pulled prefect drinks for Cas and Dean, the younger man rocks back and forth on his heels, excited to see what his drink will be. The bartender stares hard at Sam for a few moments.

“Woo, boy you are a hard nut to crack. Got a lot going on up in that noggin don’t you?”

Sam smiles at her and gives his best puppy eyes. The bartender giggles.

“Oh, now I see. Don’t you worry, I got you.”

She quickly pours a half shot of Cointreau, a shot of cognac and squeezes a lemon into a shaker full of ice. She runs a lemon wedge over a martini glass and rims it with fine sugar, before pouring in the liquor. Sam takes the drink from her and sips. Just like the other two his face lights up in pure delight. Spirts feed his weary soul.

Finally the bartender looks at Bobby. She blushes as he meets her eyes. She grabs an old fashion glass as she speaks:

“Hi” There is so much shy delight in a simple greeting that Bobby perks up.

“Hi. You know what you are making?” Bobby asked. He was too tired to try to flirt. He watched her deft hands drop a sugar cube into the glass and wet it down with a couple drops of bitters .

“Angostura?” he asked.

“Oh yes.” The bartender responded. “You are easy to read. Not many folks come in fitting this drink. It is a pleasure to make it for you.” She added a spray of club soda, crushed the sugar, and rolled the glass in her hand coating it with bitters and sugar. She then dropped in two large ice cubes, and poured a heavy shot of Rittenhouse rye. Her hand hovered over the cherries, but she pulled back and slid the glass over as was.

Bobby took a sip and sighed. A perfectly crafted Old Fashion was a thing of wonder. He smiled back at the bartender. She was pretty, with dark hair and blue eyes, probably older than Dean but far younger than Bobby. It was odd that she kept smiling at him, but Bobby was flattered. Dean slapped down a credit card that was in none of their names, and asked her to keep the tab open. She set the card back behind the bar with their tab.

“You boys have fun now.” She winked.

The four men, well three men and an angel turned with their drinks and found a table. Cas sat for a moment then got up to examine a poster on the wall. Dean smirked.

Bobby looked around. At first he thought this was a dive bar but it looked a little…off. Most the men had facial hair, beards that could Bobby’s own to shame. A lot of plaid, the boys blended in nicely. Yet it didn’t seem quite right. It wasn’t a gay bar. (Bobby had wandered into his fair share those and discovered he was a bear.) He watched women in hats with horn-rimmed glasses and men in tight jeans, dress shirts, vests and more hats. Everyone was unique and yet the overall effect was that of sameness.

“What’s up with this place?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Sam replied.

“I don’t know; it just seems off. There are is a lot of Pabst being drunk, but it ain’t cheap here. People might look like truckers or laborers, but they are all so … soft.” Bobby mulled.

Dean looked around. Skinny Jeans, check, an abundance of excessive facial hair, ironic hats and glasses, check. He turned and looked at his brother, horror on his face. Sam met his expression at the same time his blood running cold with the same revelation.

“Sammy! We are in a hipster bar!” Dean fairly cried, jumping from his chair.

“I’ll get them out, you get the check,” Sam replied as he sprung into action.

“What the hell is a hipster?” Bobby asked. “Is it a gay thing, cause the drinks here are mighty fine, and that’s not enough reason to leave.”

“Hell no, it’s not a gay thing. If it was a gay bar we could hustle drinks. Hipsters are…” Dean looked up at his brother with a pleading look.

“They are like rich kids who do things to be counterculture and liking things before they are mainstream,” explained Sam.

“And this matters to us why?” Bobby asked, still drinking the best damm old fashion he remembered ever having. He looked up and caught the eye of the bartender who smiled back at him.

“They are the reason Pabst runs you $7 a can. They don’t even call it Pabst, it’s PBR,” Dean made a face. Sam had returned with Cas.

“But Sam, I was talking to her about the bees and she was interested. I am also enjoying my drink and would like another,” the angel argued.

“Sorry buddy, but this is not our kind of bar,” Dean explained.

Just as the four of them were headed towards the door in walked the sheriff and a couple of her deputies.

“Crap,” murmured Dean as the peppy blonde waived at him. He painted on a grin as she approached.

“Agents! What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“Ahh well you know we were finishing up a case a few towns over and thought we would stop off for a drink before we headed home.” Sam deftly answered.

“Yeah, sure you betcha. Well let me get you a drink and we can catch up.”

“Yes Dean, I would like to stay as well. Another of drink is much desirable,” egged on Cas.

The brothers sighed. They knew when they were beat. Just then Bobby noticed a short man in a dark suit enter the hipster bar. He smiled his most genial at the sheriff.

“That sounds mighty fine sheriff. Let me get this round and you can get the next.”

“Golly Gee, that sounds great. I don’t bother ordering, Caroline just seems to know what I need. Best bartender in three counties,” the cheerful sheriff responds.

Leaving Sam and Dean to deal with the perkiness and Cas to wander off in search on conversation, Bobby heads back to the cleaver bartender. He sees Crowely heading that way, but the demon is playing it cool. That’s fine, Bobby is happy to watch drinks being poured.

Caroline is pouring Kahlua and Vodka over ice in an old fashion glass for a particularly pretentious looking hipster. She tops it with splash of soda and charges him $15 for it. He wraps his lips around the straw and downs the whole thing in one gulp.

“Oh man my head!” he laughs to his buddies and walks away. Bobby smirks. Ass deserved to have his mind erased.

“Be right with you” Caroline drawls out as she starts pouring drinks for the waitress. Bobby slides onto the stool in front of her.

“So how do you do it? Know what people want?” he asks.

“Bartender, I am good a reading people. Every drink tells a story, I match that story to the person,” she responds.

“Really? So, the whisky sour?”

“The whiskey sour is the fried-egg sandwich of American mixology: simple, easy, reliable in a pinch. Your friend, good looking and charming, but at home in a seedy little bar. It might be last call but he is ready to go and still knows how to show you a good time. Uncomplicated, never disappoints and gets the job done, am I describing your friend of the drink?”

“And the sidecar?”

“The only good thing that came out of Prohibition,” she quibbled. “Perfectly controlled sweetness, the jazzy high notes of the citrus against the steady bass of the brandy. It’s the Warren Beatty of drinks and like your friend it seduces and the next thing you know its 8:43 on Monday morning and you're sitting in the backseat of a taxi idling in front of your place of employ. In your skivvies.”

Bobby barked out a laugh. Sam might act like a golden retriever, but the old man knew he had just as much game as his flashier brother.

“So was the old fashion your way of calling my old?”

“You’re not going to ask about the Sherly Temple? I thought that was inspired.”

“Hell no, that was Cas poured in a glass.” The bartender laughed as she finished off the waitress’s drinks.

“Well to answer your question, the Old Fashion is the Fender Strat of cocktails, all offhand style, swagger, and micrometer engineering. It sips slow and easy when you need that and goes down like a fireball when you don't. The ingredients are cheap and readily available, simple yet sophisticated enough that you never get tired of it.” Bobby just blushes. He realized after a moment that Caroline was working on his drinks.

“Ahh add one for the sheriff if you don’t mind. I am sure you know her drink.”

“Sure do. French 75. All blonde and bubbly, it packs enough heat to give Hemming way a buzz. Consider your self-forwarded regarding our dear sheriff.”

Bobby nods his head in agreement as Crowley slides into the seat next to him.

“Glen Craig, 30, luv,” the demon orders.

As expected the bartender responds with a simple “No.”

“What do you mean no? I see it on the shelf behind you and I have the quid to pay, so do your bloody job and pour.”

Caroline smirks as she continues to make drinks. “That is not your drink.”

“What are you talking about!” he demanded. “I have been drinking that since I was a child.”

Bobby watched with open amusement as the feisty mortal met the King of Hell’s gaze. “No, you didn’t. You betters did and you swore one day that would be the only thing you drank. Now you might have come a long way from those humble roots, but you took the dirty road. You don’t deserve the drink of Lairds. Don’t worry _luv_ , I will give you what you deserve.”

She takes a pint glass and rims it in coarse salt. Then pours Budweiser 3/4s of the way up. She tops it with a generous pour of Bruichladdich, a scotch so smoky it is nearly undrinkable. The bartender stares at it for a good long minute before holding her hand out to Bobby.

“Flask,” she demands, not taking her eyes off the drink. Bobby hands it over and she pours a drop of water into the punishing drink before sliding it over to the Scot.

“You, madam, are a cold mistress and this is a cruel drink.”

“But you are little masochist, so you will pay for the pleasure,” is her smirking response.

An hour latter finds Cas involved in a riveting game of Sorry, Sam holding court with a bunch of twenty somethings as they discuss Kant, Dean playing deep cuts of The Band on a hi-fi while the sheriff dances and Crowley schools young bucks at ping pong. Bobby is of course at the bar picking up the next round.

“I am not going back to your room with you tonight,” Caroline states as she makes Crowley’s drink (he has done enough penance to earn a Harvey Wallbanger. The demon is unsure if it is an improvement or not.)

“What?!? No, I wasn’t asking you to do that. Am I putting out a ‘creepy vibe’ or something?” Bobby sputters.

“No, you’re not creepy and you’re not bothering me, I just don’t want to lead you on. If you are looking for company the blonde cougar over there is drinking vodka and soda and does not mess around.”

Bobby looks over to where Carolyn nodded. The blonde is rather good looking and she raises her glass as she notices Bobby looking. The old hunter blushes at her predatory smile.

“I am good, thanks though.”

“Good with what, luv?” Crowley asks as he slides onto the stool next to Bobby.

“You got all sweaty, did you at least win?” responds Bobby.  
            “Course I won. Kid might be good, but I’m Crowley. And I do not sweat, I glisten.”

“That you do princess. I was just telling Caroline here that I don’t need her to fix me up with any of the patrons here.”

“Course you don’t, you have been trying to get in her pants all night, don’t want to go home with another bird now do you.”

“Crowley!”

“Don’t cause such a fuss. I am not jealous, I rather like Caroline here.”

Lucky the bartender just laughs. “I am normally really good at this, but I just can’t figure you two out. Are you exes, crazy UST, or does Crowley just have a crush.”

“How do you know that Bobby is not stalking me.”

“Cause he has spent the whole night sitting with me.”

“Work associates who had one date, but he caught feelings,” explained Bobby with a smirk.

“Wouldn’t say that I caught feelings luv, just that your flannel would look better on my floor,” snarks the king of hell.

“That ain’t going to happen in the foreseeable future. But I will say your more enjoyable than post people I deal with. Let’s deliver these drinks and claim the free pool table.”

Crowley tips the bartender and grabs half the drinks. “That is small progress, but I will take what I can get.”


End file.
